


Think Happy Thoughts

by mix_kid_ao3



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Geralt Whump Week (The Witcher), POV Jaskier | Dandelion, Recreational Drug Use, Self-Harm, bad trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-03
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:14:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,987
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25044469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mix_kid_ao3/pseuds/mix_kid_ao3
Summary: Geralt takes some White Gull in the woods while Jaskier supervises. His high is ruined before it even really begins.Written for Day 2: Potions of Geralt Whump Week
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	Think Happy Thoughts

Geralt was an anxious person, Jaskier had come to find, and as such it did not shock him in the slightest when Geralt expressed his habit of using certain perception-altering substances recreationally. 

While they had done a number of said substances together, Jaskier had yet to see Geralt on White Gull. It was intriguing to learn that there were witcher-specific hallucinogens, and Jaskier had jumped at the opportunity to assist Geralt through his high.

He’s had a vague idea of what to expect. Geralt had given a brief overview of the standard effects, namely describing the warm floaty feeling he took the unfinished potion for. He would likely hallucinate, and he would be overly emotional, but he would be calm. The calm seemed to be Geralt’s favorite part, a stilling to the endless buzz in his head. Jaskier could definitely appreciate that, having tried a number of herbs and elixirs to still his own thoughts.

Geralt had taken the potion when they set up camp for the night, just before the sun had started to set. An hour later the effects began to take hold. 

It started with a softening in Geralt’s eyes. Jaskier knew he took care to keep his pupils a relatively human size but seeing them expand wider, wider, until only a thin ring of gold surrounded the dewy black was a gorgeous experience. The giggling was the next most apparent. Geralt had a delightful way of wrinkling his nose when he giggled, though he never did it sober, and the sluggish way he paused before Jaskier’s jokes seemed to click made it all the better.

It was around when Geralt began contentedly staring off into space for lengthening periods of time that things started going downhill. 

A couple passing through approached them, amicable as any until they saw Geralt. Even with his posture loose, armor shed, and expression soft it was clear who Geralt was. If his inhuman eyes were not enough, then his hair and nearby swords were, especially with how his reputation as the White Wolf had been gaining traction. 

“Witcher,” they had hissed, and Geralt’s smile had faltered.

Seeing as he could hardly let passing strangers ruin his friend’s good mood Jaskier stood to intervene. 

“How might I help you this evening?” He greeted, shifting their attention from Geralt to himself. 

“We don’t need help from anyone who associates with that Butcher,” the husband had replied. 

Jaskier would have had half a mind to fight the couple for that, however, he didn’t think Geralt would appreciate the effort even in his heightened state. He tried for diplomacy but the insults continued. Murderer, freak, demon, the words piled until Jaskier could tolerate no more. 

“It’s getting rather late, if you don’t need anything I think it might be best for you to move along and find a nice place to camp, yeah?”

The couple seemed to deliberately miss the point, moving closer instead. It was only when Jaskier made casual mention of needing to help Geralt sharpen his swords that the pair took the hint and scurried off into the deepening night. 

Jaskier sat back next to Geralt with a huff, some sarcastic comment on his tongue. The witcher tensed. Frowning, Jaskier followed the other’s gaze into the forest and found not so much as a falling leaf. Geralt started to shake and nervousness stirred in Jaskier’s belly. Geralt was supposed to be calm, not look minutes away from bursting into tears. He waved a hand in front of the witcher’s face and called his name in the hopes of inspiring a reaction.

Rather than turning to the bard or swatting at his hand Geralt shrunk in on himself, muttering a sheepish “I’m sorry.” Alarm reared its head in Jaskier’s chest. Geralt looked smaller than the bard had ever seen him as his large, unfocused eyes stared through something in the distance. The way the growing moonlight pooled in his eyes made Geralt look entirely too vulnerable. 

Jaskier’s nerves multiplied. He knelt before Geralt and put his hands on the witcher’s knees. Geralt flinched back from the touch, near falling over the log he had been sitting on. Jaskier hesitantly called for him again, only for Geralt to scramble back, more apologies falling from his lips. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he begged. “I tried not to, I tried—”

Geralt cut off suddenly and his head whipped to one side. 

“Geralt, you’re scaring me. I need you to talk to me.” Jaskier ignored the shake in his voice as he tried again. 

The witcher gave no sign of acknowledgment. His hands dug into the ground, a hurt expression morphing features that had been so relaxed less than an hour ago. Geralt flinched away from nothing. A whimper built in his throat until it became a sob. 

When the first tears ran down Geralt’s face Jaskier began panicking in earnest. Geralt reached for his swords with desperate hands and Jaskierer lunged to get to them first. Nothing good could come of Geralt having a weapon at the moment. He ignored Geralt’s sob, threw the swords as far as he could, and rushed into their tent for a blanket. Jaskier wrapped Geralt in the fabric before half dragging him onto a bedroll. 

In need of some release for his nervous energy, Jaskier talked. He couldn’t be sure what Geralt was seeing, only that it scared him, made the witcher look young and afraid. His hands ran over Geralt’s back as the man rocked. For every apology from Geralt, there was a reassurance that he had done his best from Jaskier. 

Geralt’s crying subsided eventually, replaced by an uneasy silence. Jaskier laid an arm over the man’s shoulders and pulled him close. The witcher shook where he was pressed into Jaskier’s side, and, unsure what else to do, he began humming a lullaby. For a bit, it seemed Geralt might have gotten through the worst of it. 

When Jaskier was close to nodding off Geralt suddenly began thrashing. He cried out as if struck, fought to rid himself of the blanket and make it out the tent. The witcher stumbled to find his swords again. The nearest blade happened to be Jaskier’s knife, on the ground near where they had been sitting earlier. Geralt unsheathed the dagger and brought it to his arm. Blood welled over the skin before Jaskier could intervene, and Geralt raised the knife to slash at his arm once more. 

At his best, Jaskier may not have stood a chance against the witcher, but Geralt wasn’t at his best. The bard tackled him from behind and Geralt howled. He bucked, an uncoordinated wildness to his actions, but Jaskier held on. He wrestled the knife from Geralt’s white knuckles, threw it away, and managed to pin Geralt’s wrists beneath his knees with the use of his full weight. 

The broken cries that fell from Geralt’s mouth made Jaskier’s chest ache but he held steady. He had seen the scars on Geralt’s thighs and knew no monster or person could be responsible for the sheer number except Geralt himself. With his judgment impaired Jaskier couldn’t dare to hope Geralt would hold any care for his own safety. It was only after the witcher fell into another crying spell that Jaskier moved. Slowly, the bard let Geralt go bit by bit. When he was fully disentangled Jaskier stood.

With frantic motions, Jaskier gathered anything his panicked brain recognized as dangerous and threw it into Roach’s saddlebag. He fastened the bag to Roach, forgoing any of her riding gear in favor of getting back to Geralt sooner. He petted her nose in thanks before rushing back to the tent, assured that should Geralt try to hurt himself he would need to hunt Roach down first.

When Jaskier returned to Geralt the witcher was scratching angry red marks into his arms as he hugged himself. A litany of pleads, apologies and disconnected words fell from Geralt’s mouth, a match to the tears falling from his eyes

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed. 

He pulled Geralt’s hands away from the bloody lines and held them to his own chest. Geralt looked at him and Jaskier let himself hope it was with recognition. The witcher’s eyes locked onto Jaskier’s throat. 

“I’m sorry, Jask,” he said. 

It was in no way the recognition Jaskier had wanted. He tried to assure Geralt he was fine, that he had long forgiven him for his misspoken wish, but Geralt’s eyes were still unfocused and he had no way to be sure his words were coming through. 

The rest of the night proceeded in similar bouts of activity and stillness. Jaskier alternated between pinning Geralt’s hands and stroking his back. Geralt fell asleep sometime in the early morning before dawn, clutching Jaskier to his chest. When the sun rose and Geralt opened his tear-puffy eyes again the bard felt the tension of the night finally leave him. 

“Back with me Dearheart?” Jaskier asked sleepily. 

Geralt nodded, eyes still unguarded but aware.

“I… I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to go like that.” 

Jaskier hummed and pulled Geralt closer. Of course it wasn’t supposed to go like that, he wanted to say. Instead, he asked, “Are you ok?” 

Geralt seemed shocked by Jaskier’s question but nodded hesitantly. Memories of Geralt shouting with terrified eyes, of pulling the witcher’s hands from bloody tears in his skin, plagued Jaskier’s mind despite the exhaustion weighing on his body. 

“You don’t have to tell me,” he started. “But it might do some good to talk about what you saw. You were yelling a lot but I couldn’t figure out what at.”

Geralt looked away and a shudder ran through him. He was quiet for a long time, long enough Jaskier thought he might be stubborn and refuse to talk. When Geralt finally spoke his voice was faint and heavy with emotion. 

“Just… people. People I let down. You, Vesemir, Visenna, Ren—” he cut himself off and restarted. “People that died because of me and… the Trials. A lot of boys died during the Trials.”

Jaskier was hardly awake enough to process the enormity of Geralt’s near ninety years of cumulative guilt but he knew Geralt needed him, so he gave it his best. 

“You haven’t let me down. And I’m not dead. The one time you almost killed me you didn’t, and every other time I’ve nearly died you’ve kept it from happening. I’ve met Vesemir, and I don’t think he would say you’ve let him down either. Also your mother is a thistle worth less than the ground she grows in. Fuck her and her opinions.”

It wasn’t his most eloquent, but it was enough for Geralt to look at him again. Fear seeped from the witcher’s shoulders in little measures until he looked himself again, no longer scared and young, but with hints of vulnerability still clinging. 

“Right, let’s get you cleaned up,” Jaskier said after a moment. “You hurt yourself a couple times, got me all in a huff and covered in blood.”

Geralt looked down and made a face as if he were only just realizing how his arms ached. Jaskier gathered a cloth and one of their water skins then wiped away the flaking blood. He could feel Geralt watching him as he worked but paid him no mind. He needed a nap. When the cloth stopped coming away red Jaskier spread salve over the wounds, careful of the uneven redness around Geralt’s biceps where he had scratched himself. The bard pressed a kiss to each cut when he finished. 

“You matter to me,” Jaskier muttered between kisses, “You’re good and strong and beautiful and so brave. There is no shame in doing your best to help people.”

Geralt stared incredulously until the last of his injuries were cared for. 

“Sometimes when I’m with you, you make me feel like a real person,” he said.


End file.
